Day 4: The Bomb and the Permit

Kabul

Naeem Randhawa

July 7, 2008

It's one-thirty in the morning. I'm at Qasim's house (name changed for security), sitting in the dining room, staring at the computer screen. One question in my mind. What the fuck am I doing here?

This morning I awoke, jet-lag keeping up part of the night. Qasim and I stood in the kitchen, making some coffee. Afghans drink tea, they do not drink coffee. He handed me the sediment and cream heavy bitter sludge, I sipped it, and appreciated it anyway, after telling him this was the worst coffee I'd ever had. Our chuckling was interrupted with a heavy rumble of a distant bomb. We looked at each other, Qasim casually blurted, "Bomb went off." I asked "Are you sure?". What the hell does a bomb sound like? I was trying to think what else it might be, but concluded, that I know nothing about bombs, and if Qasim says it's a bomb, then it's a bomb.

We headed out for the day, Qasim to work, and I to meet a young student filmmaker to help me get a film permit. Afghan Logistics runs a taxi service of Toyota Corollas with working air conditioners, it's what the expats use to get around, they cost a little more, but your chances of getting kidnapped are reduced. On the way to Afghan Films, the government film agency, the taxi driver filled me in. A suicide bomber had climbed into a Toyota Corolla (the irony didn't escape me), and drove the bomb filled car into a crowd in front of the Indian Embassy. He killed dozens of people, injured more than a hundred, including of course women and children standing in line to get visas, and also took down most of the concrete wall of the building. The streets were jammed, some closed around the area. Afghan Films was in that general area, after some delays and re-routing we finally made it there.

Engineer Latif runs Afghan Films, and is a pleasant man in his late forties, he let me into his office, and listened to my plans to do my documentary, while making last minute arrangements for the Afghanistan International Film Festival, kicking off tonight. I had met him last night, along with a bunch of other interesting folks at a dinner held by Islamic Relief. "You should have gotten the pictures like I told you for the permit!", he exclaimed. I wasn't going to argue, that I was with him at the dinner until eleven pm, and this morning I was in a taxi ride that should have taken fifteen minutes, but took an hour, cutting off my time to get the pictures. Imal, the young student filmmaker showed up, and we left Engineer Latif's office to get our ID pictures taken.

We walked down the main street, and found a photography place, sat down and put on our cheesy smiles, got the pictures. I paid ten bucks for the pictures, clearly getting ripped off, but didn't have time to argue. By the time we got back to the Afghan Film office, Engineer Latif had left, his secretary murmured something about getting one of his guests out of the police custody, for not having proper papers with him. We walked around the office, and found his second in command, and as gently as possible, convinced him that Engineer Latif had ok'd us getting the permit. We waited for his meeting to finish, and made our request again. He asked us to come back in a couple of hours, after taking all the details. I asked if we could hand out, and just wait, as we needed the permit urgently. He said to come back in a half hour. We sat in the outside garden, and returned in half hour. He looked at us, asked us to have a seat, and started the paperwork - I guess he meant he would start in half an hour, we heard he'd finish in half hour. Our mistake of course.

After writing all the details in Dari on a piece of paper, and noting all relevant information for the permit, like my fathers name, he announced the letter would now have to be typed to make it official. To type if, of course, a computer needs to be working properly, as this was not the case, we get routed to another building further in the complex. We get there, head to the second floor, and meet with a third official. He cross examines the hand-written note. I'm staring at the proximity of his carelessly waving hand with the lit cigarette next to my precious permit. He asks a few questions, we go through the whole story of what I'm doing here, why I want to make a film what I will film, what I won't film, and my father's name. He puts the paper down, and says we have to come back in a few hours the printers not working. I smile, and Imal translates, "How about I look at your printer, I'd be happy to help in whatever way I can?" He smiles, "Sure".

Having avoided an insult, I get behind the dust covered computer, that's at least 5 years old. It turns on, I check the printer connections, everything's connected, but the drivers are not installed. With the staff of four government officials watching me work, I install the drivers, and print out a test page. Smiles break out around me, and a chorus of "Tashakor" (thank you), I avoid feeling like a hero. They take the hand written letter, type it in, print it, glue our pictures on it, sign it a few times, then stamp it a couple of times. Everyone's happy. The official offers us some lunch, string beans and naan. With the running around and waiting, we're starving, we graciously accept, and eat with him. I promise him that I'll include his name in the credit of my film, for getting me the permit. He smiles and laughs. We've made a friend.

We finally leave, and I get home. I'm exhausted, and my jet-lag is making my eyes strain for sleep. We don't do any shooting for the day. I tell Imal we'll start tomorrow. I take a four hour nap, and wake up, with the news on CNN. They're talking about the bomb, pictures of ambulances, and people in bandages. Kids in bandages, rushed to the hospital. The hospital rep says, they had to turn patients away to another hospital, they were full.

Now it's one-thirty in the morning, and I stare at my screen. Still wondering, what the fuck I'm doing here. Life and death rolls around me, and I'm here to make a movie, seems to be pointless. What can I do with my camera? Haven't we seen this before? What can I capture and show that's different? What difference will this make to those victims? Did I waste my time coming here? Should I have just stayed with my wife and boy?

Maybe it's the jet-lag, maybe I just need to go and sleep. Tomorrow is another day.